


poetry readings and coffee meetings

by machellex



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, a little parenthetical, one of those au tropes, this is really just a short ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machellex/pseuds/machellex
Summary: Jyn needs to pass Latin American literature in order to graduate next month.Which is how she finds herself at some dumb poetry reading by a Mexican author of sorts who is supposedly an alumnus or grad student or other at Yavin University of which her professor could not stop going on and on about because one of his former students waspublished—and really, Jyn can’t help but roll her eyes to the back of her head.It’s a bloody poem, Christ, not a cure to cancer.--Or:“I’m being forced to go to a poetry reading by this visiting author i’ve never heard of and i’m waiting for it to start when you sit down next to me and i try to make conversation, and yup, you’re the fucking author” au





	

**Author's Note:**

> “I’m being forced to go to a poetry reading by this visiting author i’ve never heard of and i’m waiting for it to start when you sit down next to me and i try to make conversation, and yup, you’re the fucking author” au
> 
> i suck at titles

 

Jyn needs to pass Latin American literature in order to graduate next month. 

And she is. Kind of. Well, almost. 

She _will_ be passing once she gets her extra credit points from attending this goddamn poetry session. 

She’s never been quite the best at analyzing literature or writing essays or poems or anything of that kind of sort (she’s a maths kind of girl or more specifically, a programming kind of girl), _much less_ anything past British literature. But she needed to knock out her goddamn global cultures and writing flags before she graduated, so she figured the class could kill two birds in one stone. 

The only minor problem being that, her stone was not killing either birds, figuratively. 

Which is how she finds herself at some dumb poetry reading by a Mexican author of sorts who is supposedly an alumnus or grad student or other at Yavin University of which her professor could not stop going on and on about because one of his former students was _published_ —and really, Jyn can’t help but roll her eyes to the back of her head. 

It’s a bloody poem, Christ, not a cure to cancer. 

She’s five minutes late (very purposefully so—she’d like to miss as much of the reading as is possible) and trickles into the back row, very carefully navigating to the corner seat in the dark. The room is small and almost empty, only maybe a scatter of about six or seven other students in attendance. They’ve only just barely started, her professor making the opening remarks as Jyn sinks into a chair, setting her backpack to the ground. 

At first, Jyn tries to listen. Really. 

But then her professor starts talking about the author running a little bit late, so he’ll delve into a bit of Latin American literature history, and _bloody Christ_ , Jyn would rather shrivel into a speck of dust and disappear than listen to her professor mention the creation of Aztec codices again for what feels like the tenth time this semester. 

Someone sinks into the seat next to her about five or seven minutes later. She can barely make him out in the dark, but she can note the slight wrinkles around his eyes and the complacent calmness in the thin line of his lips. Jyn can’t help but envy him—she thought she had been smart enough to trickle in late and avoid five minutes of the reading but ten minutes was even _smarter_.

When the professor _still_ goes on for what feels like forever, Jyn is desperate to busy herself and makes a nod to his lack of punctuality. “Were you stuck doing extra credit too?”

The man next to her turns his head slightly, a furrow knitting between his brows. “Sorry?”

“It’s such a hassle, going to these things,” she says, plowing forward. “I don’t even like poetry, much less poetry in Spanish. Christ.”

He’s silent for a moment, then opens his mouth to speak, “I—”

“I mean, does anyone even _know_ who this Cassian Andor is?” she hisses under her breath. “I bet half these students are here because they’re failing Latin American literature like I am.”

“Well, I—” He pauses, eyes assessing her before he raises a brow, lips quirking up just slightly. “You’re failing Latin American literature? With Essoh?”

She juts her chin, challenges him with a defiant stare. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“He’s not even Latin American.”

“He’s incredibly critical.”

The man snorts, brown eyes lighting up. “Half of his lectures and analyses are based on statistics alone. He hardly understands semantics or rhetoric enough to really read or write a well-versed poem or piece of literature, much less one with Latin American context.”

“And you would know,” she says dryly, crossing her arms and leaning back in her seat. 

He shrugs. “I’ve taken his class. You can make an A if your essays cite evidence. It’s all he really looks for.”

Jyn eyes him carefully, takes in his rumpled hair and scruffy chin and the wry grin at his lips. This _could_ be reason as to why she does so terribly on Essoh’s papers (she doesn’t think many of her essays cite much evidence, if at all), but it could also just be that this man is incredibly gifted at writing and assumes everyone else can follow said footsteps. Jyn is not incredibly gifted, and really, can’t follow in anyone’s footsteps. 

He shakes his head slowly, humor curling at the corner of his lips. “Just advice from someone who’s been there. You can take it or leave it.”

“If you’re wrong—”

“Then I’ll owe you one,” he says, gingerly, like he’s gauging her reaction, eyes attentively on hers.

Jyn blinks. Then, “Okay,” she says, firm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He laughs softly under his breath, a nice velvety sound to her ears, quickly mutters something in Spanish under his breath. Then, in English, “I’m Cassian.”

“Cass—” she stops, eyes widening in recognition at the sound of his name (what was it again, _Cassian Andor?_ ), mouth suddenly a bit too dry for her liking. There’s a knowing look in his eyes as his grin stretches across his face. 

“Not all of my poems are in Spanish,” he remarks with twinkling eyes, a nod towards her earlier jab at Spanish poetry, as he stands up from his seat. “So maybe you’ll like some of them.”

Jyn finds herself sinking in her seat, closing her eyes. Humiliated is a strong word, and Jyn is not easily humiliated. But she is begrudgingly fazed, if just a bit.

Cassian makes his way to the small stage and sets his bag on the ground. He taps the microphone before greeting the audience effortlessly in Spanish, then shortly at the end, his eyes meet hers in the crowd, and amusement sweeps his features. “Again, thank you to all of you who are here today—whether you know of me or don’t. I appreciate it all the same, even if it _is_ for extra credit, and you don’t even like poetry.”

Jyn slides further into her seat.

Bloody _Christ._

—

“You should have told me,” she demands in frustration, later, when the reading is over.

He shrugs as he packs his bag. “I tried.”

“You didn’t try very hard.”

His lips quirk. “You had so much to say. It was hard to interrupt.”

“So you _let_ me shoot myself in the foot,” she presses, eyes narrowing, her hand on the strap of her bag, gripping tightly. Cassian tilts his head at her, studying her carefully like she is a poem to analyze, and she’s not quite sure how to feel about that. She busies herself by keeping her gaze on the bridge of his nose— “How _kind_ of you—”

“Do you want coffee?

Jyn stops, blinking. "I—"

But he’s already turning, the breadth of his back facing her, shoulder blades prominent in the thin layer of his button-up, his coat tossed over his arm, dangling. A few steps forward and then he’s turning back, “You coming?”

And Jyn should say no, she really should.

For some reason or other, she doesn’t.

(Later, she learns he’s a third-year PhD student in Latin American studies and a former undergraduate student of Professor Essoh’s Latin American literature class (he says it was a terrible class, really.) He was late because someone spilled coffee on him, and he had to go home to change.)

(And later, she finds that she should owe him instead once he helps her ensure her passing grade. It wasn't easy, Cassian admits, because her writing style is anything but fluid, but she passes, and that's all she really cares about.)

(And somewhere down the line, Jyn thinks she may like poetry after all (she won’t tell Cassian that, or he’ll hold it over her for forever)—but she likes reading it a little and listening to him say it, a lot.)

(And at some point, she thinks she may like Cassian too.)

**Author's Note:**

> visit me here [@ma-chelle](http://ma-chelle.tumblr.com/)


End file.
